Mingled with general gratitude for the beneficial rainfall of last weekend are a host of varying surmises as to the cause of such a large downpour.

"'Tis precious stuff," said old George Jones "When men sore needs a fall;Tho' how or why it comes, I owns I ain't got clear at all.Some sez that in the sun, a spot Controls it in some way.""It's this 'ere wireless, like as not," Said old Pete Parraday.

"Wireless," scoffed grey-haired Joey Park. "Wot wireless did they use When ole man Noah sailed the ark? It's them black cockytoos.Last week I seen more than a few, An' then wot did I say --""'Tis wireless -- I'm tellin' you!" Said old Pete Parraday.

"Cockies? Sun-spots?" said Daddy Shore, "Jist foolish talk an' vain.It's this 'ere Abbysinian war An' guns as causes rain.Ain't it been proved by natcharil laws Time an' again, the way --""It's this 'ere wireless is the cause," Said old Pete Parraday.

Said old George Jones, "Ain't you ashamed To talk the way you do?It's providence gits mostly blamed When things is lookin' blue.Ain't the rain now due? For ain't we got O'er all this world full sway?""Too right. But wireless helps a lot," Said old Pete Parraday.

Owing to the presence in the upper air of microscopic dust blown from remote northern deserts, snow that fell at Mount Hotham and elsewhere recently was light pink in color. This report, together with tales of our red rain, black swans, walking fishes and egg-laying, duck-billed platypusses, may well cause wonder amongst simple folk in older lands.

While the majority of people in town and country grumbled peevishly about the heat yesterday, many citizens engaged in summer trades hailed such weather as a belated godsend after an uncertain and profitless summer season.

I came from heights of eternal snow, And I rode the wind to the vale below; I bent the pine boughs as I passed With the angry strength of my icy blast:I ruffled the surface of the lake Till a thousand waves with white crests brake; I tossed the far-off wandering ships, While children watched me with questioning lips. Yet what do I care for men's drowning sighs, Or the yearning grief in the women's eyes? Tho' they wake the night with their anguished cry, The Storm King laughs as he rushes by. First published in The Queenslander, 21 May 1898

O Reader was it ever thine to see A battle of the storm and hurricane, Waged round the peaks of some huge mountain chain, The deadly flash of Heaven's artillery, The cannon smoke of squall-clouds luridly Hanging about the vantage points -- the rain Pausing, like darkness, ere it drops amain To still the combat? Such was deigned to me On Mount Victoria's majestic pass; The thunder volleyed and thick smoke of cloud Enveloped York and mounts of lesser mass, Save when the murderous flash of lightning ploughed A momentary passage, and the hail Swept like a bullet shower before the gale.

First published in The Australian Town and Country Journal, 5 January 1884

Old Drought, Death's dearest champion, Walks gauntly o'er the land; His teeth all white and gleaming, His weapons in his hand,And near and far his war-notes, The stifled groans of pain, Roll slowly to the welkin And echo back again.

The dust, his rolling standard, Waves high across the runs, While throbbing thirst and famine, His two quick-firing guns, With callous claim and deadly aim Put peace and happiness to shame Till joy is but an empty name, And Hope the horror shuns.

See! gloating o'er its suffering, With eager, straining eyes, He stoops above the struggler And mocks it as it dies With visions wild and joyful, Till, sure that joy is shown, With rattle weird and eerie He claims it as his own.

Then, sweeping on in laughter, He calls; from far and wide The ghosts of bygone suffering Stream in on every side; And as they come, with moaning humThrough lips that struggle to be dumb,He sneers at most, but jests with some In very lust of pride.

The skeletons of sorrow Beneath his baneful stare,With weary limbs and aching, Are all assembled there,And, by his mournful music, Awakened from their trance,With heavy feet and listless Begin to reel and dance.

With hollow tones and mocking He laughs to scorn their dread; And now his teeth are gleaming A bright and smoking red. The revelry of misery Sweeps onward in its agony, Till life itself has ceased to be --- The empty earth is dead.

What care I what wins the races? What care I for falling stock?What care I for airs and graces Of the flappers on the Block?All my cares have passed away; I'm beyond all dull complaining,For the skies are leaden grey; And it's raining, raining, raining!

Plague me with no pleasant duties Of this sunny land of ours,While the country side and cites Are athirst for cooling showers.All my worries now are sped -- Now that Sovereign Summer's waning;And five million folk are fed; For it's raining! RAINING! RAINING!First published in the Sun News-Pictorial, 11 May 1927

This is a tale that the coachman told,As he flicked the flies from MarigoldAnd flattered and fondled Pharaoh.The sun swung low in the western skies;Out on a plain, just over a rise, Stood Nimitybell, on Monaro;Cold as charity, cold as Hell,Bleak, bare, barren Nimitybell -- Nimitybell on Monaro.

"Now this 'ere 'appened in eighty-three,The coldest winter ever we see;Strewth, it was cold, as cold as could be Out 'ere on Monaro:It froze the blankets, it froze the fleas,It froze the sap in the blinkin' trees.I made a grindstone out of cheese, Right 'ere in Monaro!

"Freezin' an' snowin' -- ask the old handsThey seen, they knows, an' they understandThe ploughs was froze, and the cattle brands, Down 'ere in Monaro:It froze our fingers and froze our toes:I seen a passenger's breath so frozeIcicles 'ung from 'is bloomin' nose Long as the tail on Pharaoh!

"I ketched a curlew down by the creek;His feet was froze to his blessed beak;'E stayed like that for over a week -- That's cold on Monaro.Why, even the air got froze that tightYou'd 'ear the awfullest sounds at night,When things was put to a fire or light, Out 'ere on Monaro.

"For the sounds was froze. At Haydon's BogA cove 'e crosscut a big back-log,An' carted 'er 'ome ('e wants to jog -- Stiddy, go stiddy there, Pharaoh!).As soon as his log begins to thawThey 'ears the sound of the crosscut sawA-thawin' out. Yes, his name was Law. Old hands, them Laws, on Monaro.

"The second week of this 'ere cold snapI'm drivin' the coach. A Sydney chap,'E strikes this part o' the bloomin' map, A new hand 'ere on Monaro:'Is name or game I never heard tell,But 'e gets of at Nimitybell;Blowin' like Bluey, freezin' like 'ell, At Nimitybell on Monaro.

"The drinks was froze, o' course, in the bar:They breaks a bottle of old Three Star,An' the barman sezs, 'Now, there y' are, You can't beat that for Monaro!'The stranger bloke, 'e was tall an' thin,Sez 'Strike me blue, but I think you win;We'll 'ave another an' I'll turn in -- It's blitherin' cold on Monaro.'

"'E borrowed a book an' went to bedTo read awhile, so the missus said,By the candle-light. 'E must ha' read (These nights is long on Monaro)Past closin' time. Then 'e starts an' blowsThe candle out: but the wick 'ad froze!Leastways, that's what folks round 'ere suppose Old hands as lived on Monaro.

"So bein' tired, an' a stranger, newTo these mountain ways, they think he threw'Is coat on the wick; an' maybe, too, Any odd clothes 'e'd to spare. Oh,This ain't no fairy, an' don't you fret!Next day came warmer, an' set in wet --There's some out 'ere as can mind it yet, The real old 'ands on Monaro.

"The wick must ha' thawed. The fire beganAt breakfast time. The neighbors all ranTo save the pub`.....an' forgot the man (Stiddy, go stiddy there, mare-oh).The pub was burned to the blanky ground;'Is buttons was all they ever found.The blinkin' cow, 'e owed me a pound -- From Cooma his blinkin' fare, oh!

"That ain't no fairy, not what I've told;l'm gettin' shaky an' growin' old,An' I hope I never again see cold, Like that down 'ere 'on Monaro!"

He drives his horses, he drives them well,And this is the tale he loves to tellNearing the town of Nimitybell, Nimitybell on Monaro.

First published in The Bulletin, 20 April 1922;and later inFrom the Ballads to Brennan edited by T. Inglis Moore, 1964;The Illustrated History of Australian Verse edited by Beatrice Davis, 1984;My Country: Australian Poetry and Short Stories, Two Hundred Years edited by Leonie Kramer, 1985;Old Ballads from the Bush edited by Bill Scott, 1987;Two Centuries of Australian Poetry edited by Kathrine Bell, 2007; and 100 Australian Poems You Need to Know edited by Jamie Grant, 2008.

Far up on the height, in the tropical blaze of the noonday, Or 'neath shade of the pines and the solitude born of the air,Where the white wings of birds and throb-notes of melody beat not In the motionless verdure of trees or the heat and the glare.

The motionless verdure of trees on the slope of the hill-side Throws a pendulous pall o'er the moss-covered boulder and me; While the glitter of distant inlet my vision entrances, And the glint from the foam-flecked waves on the far-away sea.

Sultry the air; no cool breezes blow soft o'er the mountain, But the sheen of a shimmering ocean of crystalline light Floods the peak and the plain. The wide-spreading forest and scrub-land Throb with tremulous poise and a lustre that dazzles the sight.

No sough from the moorland, no hum from the flower seeking bee. The moorland sere is afar, the last of the blossoms have fled; The breath of a fiery December has touched them and dried them, Drought comes with heat, and flowers and pasture are withered and dead.

Oppressive the air grows, hazy the hills that bound the horizon; Mists veil the sky where glint of the sun on the ocean has been; Mists change to slow-rising torreted ramparts, bodeful of tempest, Girding with vapours the sky and veiling with dimness the scene.

Whisperings come from the she-oak, murmurings soft from the pine-tree; Moans from the moorland, wails from dark gorges lurking beneath; Rushes the wind with its garment of cloud-wrack sable and sombre --- Sulphurous mantle of vapour hiding the fire in its sheath.

Whisperings low change to wailing, murmurings deepen to moaning; There is swaying of branches, screaming of birds, the sudden splash of the rain; Quivering gleam of the lightning in fitful and tremulous splendour, Rumble and crash of thunder, resounding again and again.

Nearer, still nearer the tumult, closer, still closer the roar; Surging the contest, baleful the fires that incessantly light Lurid recesses of Hell, displacing bright mansions of Heaven, Or yawning abysses of darkness wrapt in the mantle of night.

Forth bursts the levin-bolt from the blackness above the pine-tops, And the aisles of the forest lament as the brave trees bend to their doom, Mid the dirge of the blast and the roll of the storm fiend's chariot As he speeds on his wreck-strewn path through the maze of the glowering gloom.

Placid, tranquil the woodland, chequered with sunshine and shadow; Sweet exhalations from flowers are wafted upon the breeze; The winds intone a paean, telling of freshness and gladness, Blent with the anthems of birds and rhythmical cadence of trees.

Fresh is the verdurous pasture, gladsome the ripple of brooklets, Purling and babbling the gentle laughter of waters that lave; Tokens of plenitude vast pouring from bounteous Earth's bosom, Earth, fertile mother of fruits, bright blossoms, and branches that wave.

Such is the season of summer, charged with the storm or the drought, Fraught with the fate of flowers, green pastures, and cattle, and man: Send us, beneficent God, abundant all-comforting showers; Grant us, O God, in the drear time of drought, release from Thy ban.